To Kill or Cure (23 page)

‘But surely, maintaining low rents in a world of spiralling costs is a good thing?’ asked Michael.

‘Good for us,’ said Wisbeche. ‘But not for those who need the income to feed themselves.’

‘That does not include Candelby, though,’ said Spaldynge. ‘He is already disgustingly rich.’

‘You should know,’ said Wisbeche tartly. ‘You sold him a University-owned house, despite the Senior Proctor’s request that
we hold off on property sales until the rent war is settled.’

‘A compromise would be the best solution,’ said Kardington, stepping forward to prevent Spaldynge from responding. ‘Perhaps
we could raise the rents by a nominal amount. Our students will complain, and so will the landlords, but it is the best we
can do.’

‘I have already tried that,’ said Michael. ‘And it has been rejected in no uncertain terms. The landlords want to
triple
the rents, and will not accept a penny less.’

‘Then triple them,’ said Wisbeche with a shrug. ‘Students on low incomes will have to go to Oxford instead. Nothing can be
bought in this world without money, so why should a university be any different?’

‘Do not do it, Brother,’ warned Kardington. ‘If you yield on this front, we will face ultimatums from those who provide other
commodities – ale, bread, meat and other essential supplies.’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘So, as well as having to do battle with the town, I discover that my colleagues are divided in their
opinions, too – two sides offering perfectly valid arguments.’

Wisbeche smiled ruefully. ‘It would seem so. I would not like to be in your position, Brother.’

‘Neither would I,’ said Kardington fervently. ‘So, we agree on that, at least. Come, Spaldynge. Let us go home before you
offend any more vulgar taverners.’

‘Willingly,’ said Spaldynge. ‘I do not want to linger here with a physician, anyway.’

When they had gone, Bartholomew noticed that three old ladies who sold vegetables near St Mary the Great were glaring at him.
One summoned him frequently to cure her stomach pains, and he had never once charged for his services. He smiled at her, and
was disappointed when she spat at him. He had expected her to feel some affection towards him, after all his years of charity.

‘Spaldynge has a fierce temper,’ remarked Michael, sketching a wry benediction at her as he passed. ‘And he, alone of the
Clare scholars, has no alibi for the business on Sunday – he remained in the College when everyone else rushed out to gawp,
because he thought it might be a diversion for a burglary. I wonder just how far his hatred of physicians extends.’

‘But the Clare men raced out of their hall
after
the accident, when Lynton was already dead. What Spaldynge did at that point is irrelevant.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I made a few enquiries, and learned that no one from Clare actually saw Spaldynge that afternoon
– the reason Kardington and Lexham say he stayed behind to guard the College is because he told them so. They did not see
him – not after the accident, and not before, either. And do not forget that Falmeresham is a physician in all but name, now
he is so close to finishing his degree.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Spaldynge has been making barbed comments to me ever since the plague, but he has never been violent.’

‘Then let us hope he has not started now.’

‘Perhaps Wisbeche is right about the rents,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around as they crossed the Market Square. He could
not recall a time when he had felt less
comfortable in his own town, and realised how fickle people could be. ‘Maybe you should capitulate.’

Michael sighed. ‘I lay awake most of last night, fretting about the situation. I considered tendering my resignation and fleeing
to Ely before I am lynched, but that would be cowardly.’

‘It is not you that is the problem, Brother. It is the rents. Raise them.’

‘The only way to do that is by amending the Statutes,’ said Michael. ‘And that requires the permission of the Regents.’ The
Regents were the University’s Fellows and senior scholars.

‘Then call a Convocation of the Regents, Brother.
They
can decide whether the Statutes should change or stay as they are, and we can
all
take responsibility for what is happening. I do not see why you should have to bear this alone.’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I imagine most Regents will feel like Wisbeche, and will prefer more expensive accommodation in a peaceful
town.’

‘I hope so, because the alternative is cheap rent in a town that is rife with turmoil.’

‘Arderne must have a compelling tongue,’ said Michael, as they walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘I thought you were popular with
your patients, but several have scowled at you today. Surely you cannot have killed that many?’

‘Robert de Blaston just smiled, so they are not all infected with Arderne’s poison. Most of them are glaring at
you
, anyway, and Burgess Ashwelle just called you a—’

‘What did you learn from challenging Blankpayn?’ asked the monk, not wanting to hear what Ashwelle had said. ‘Were his answers
worth risking another brawl?’

Bartholomew winced as a man, cloaked and hooded
against the rain, walked out of St Michael’s Lane directly into the path of a cart. The pony reared and the driver howled
abuse. The pedestrian jerked back in alarm, then fled along the High Street. Bartholomew was puzzled. Such incidents happened
all the time, and those involved either yelled back or ignored them – few people ever ran away.

‘Blankpayn’s testimony was inconsistent. First, he said he had not wounded Falmeresham badly, and only later did he start
talking about a body. I suspect he was just trying to upset us.’

‘Do not read too much into it,’ warned Michael, seeing hope glow in his friend’s eyes. ‘If Falmeresham was alive, he would
have found his way home by now.
Ergo,
I suspect he is dead, and Blankpayn’s parting words will prove to be prophetic – we will start to receive letters demanding
a relaxing of the rent laws in exchange for his body soon.’

‘Falmeresham is resourceful,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe he is dead.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting for them in the lane. ‘I
do not like the way people are looking at you,’ the book-bearer said uneasily. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Unless you think I was spotted burgling Clare last night.’

‘No one saw you except Spaldynge, who now thinks he was mistaken,’ said Cynric. ‘We were lucky. But I was loitering to give
you this. It was delivered anonymously a few moments ago, and I thought it might be important.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the book-bearer handed him a note. ‘Now what?’

The message was written on parchment that was thin and old – someone had not wanted to spend money on a better piece. The
handwriting was crabbed, and Michael turned it this way and that until he was forced to admit it was too
small for his eyes. He gave it to Bartholomew. The physician scanned it quickly, then gazed at the monk in horror.

‘It is a confession from a man who claims he murdered Kenyngham. He says he fed him a slow-acting poison at Easter, and that
is why he died.’

Michael tore it from him. ‘Are you sure? You have not misread it?’

‘Of course I have not misread it! It is in French, which is strange – scholars would use Latin and townsfolk prefer English.
Someone is making sure he leaves you no clues as to his identity.’

‘How could anyone poison Kenyngham?’ asked Cynric. ‘He was with you at Easter.’

Bartholomew felt a stab of unease when he realised that was not true. ‘There was a vigil in St Michael’s Church from sunset
on Saturday until dawn on Sunday. The rest of us came and went in shifts, but Kenyngham remained the whole night and sometimes
he was alone.’

‘I
told
you he was poisoned,’ cried Michael. His face was white with shock. ‘I said so on several occasions, but you kept saying
that he was not.’

‘I did not think he could have been.’ Bartholomew’s stomach felt as though it was full of liquid lead – heavy and burning
at the same time. Had he really made that sort of blunder? The poison must have been a very sly one, without odour or obvious
symptoms, or he would have detected something amiss. Or would he? He thought about Motelete, and how even Arderne – a fraud
– had seen signs of life that he had missed. Perhaps he had made another terrible mistake, this time with a man he had considered
a friend. The thought made him feel sick.

‘Can a slow-acting poison kill a man in the way Kenyngham died?’ demanded Michael. ‘He said he was
too weary to walk to the Gilbertine Friary, then he closed his eyes and you made the assumption that he was lost in prayer.
Of course, he was actually breathing his last.’

Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, but he did not complain of being ill. I thought he was just tired after all the fasting
and praying of Lent.’

‘You might have been able to help him,’ said Michael, stricken, ‘had you paid more attention.’

‘No,’ said Cynric, coming to his master’s defence. ‘Once some poisons have been swallowed, there is nothing anyone can do,
no matter how diligently they watch.’

Michael relented. He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I am sorry, Matt – I did not mean to sound accusing. It is not your fault
he died, but this vile killer’s.’

Bartholomew did not hear him: he was thinking about Kenyngham’s last words, when he had talked about crocodiles and shooting
stars. Had the old man been in the grip of a deadly substance that had made him delusional? And what about the potion Michael
had seen him imbibe, which he had called an antidote? Had he known his life was in danger? And if so, had Bartholomew – his
own physician – missed signs and symptoms that should have told him something was wrong? Perhaps folk
were
right to distrust his skills and call him a charlatan.

The news that someone had elbowed Kenyngham into his grave had shocked Bartholomew deeply, and he kept replaying the Gilbertine’s
last day through in his mind. He sat in his room, staring out of the window, not seeing the rain that slanted across the courtyard
and turned hard earth into a morass of mud and wet chicken droppings. The College hens and the porter’s peacock huddled under
a tree, balls of saturated feathers looking sorry for themselves, while Agatha’s cat stretched gloatingly on the kitchen
windowsill, luxuriating in the only warm room at Michaelhouse.

Michael was finishing a cake Edith had sent Bartholomew for Easter. He picked up the plate, carefully poured the crumbs into
his hand, then slapped them into his mouth. While he chewed, he took the confession in his hand and stared at it.

‘Why do people use such tiny writing these days? The purpose of letters is to communicate, and you cannot do that if you scribe
your message too small for normal men to read.’

Bartholomew went to the chest where he kept his belongings, and rummaged for a few moments, eventually emerging with a rectangular
piece of glass that had been set into a leather frame. ‘This belonged to the Arab physician I studied under in Paris. He said
I might want it one day, but I think your need is greater than mine.’

Michael’s face broke into a grin of delight as he passed the item across the letter. ‘It magnifies the words so I can see
them! This is a clever notion, Matt. Your Arab master was a genius.’

Bartholomew sat and stared across the courtyard again. ‘It is obvious, when you think about it. The exact science of optics
asserts that a convex lens will reflect the ratio of the width of an image to the width of an object—’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael, studying the text intently. ‘Who penned this letter? Do you recognise the writing? Whose
scrawl is so minute that a glass is required to make sense of it?’

‘Virtually everyone in the University, according to you. However, an equally important question to ask is
why
did someone write it? Is it to boast, because the culprit knows you will never catch him? Is it because he feels guilty,
and wants his crime unveiled?’

‘And why would anyone harm Kenyngham?’ Michael flicked the letter with his finger to indicate distaste. ‘He was the last man
to accumulate enemies.’

‘I would have said the same about Lynton.’

‘Not so, Matt. Kenyngham was a saint. However, we have discovered that Lynton leased houses to wealthy burgesses rather than
to his fellow scholars.
And
there is an odd association between him and Ocleye – both shot with crossbows and both with their signatures on a rent agreement.
Nothing like that will ever be discovered about Kenyngham.’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘He and Lynton were very different men.’

‘Of course, there is nothing to say they were not dispatched by the same person. One killed by an arrow and the other by insidious
poison. Neither method allows for second thoughts.’

‘No one disliked Kenyngham.’ Bartholomew turned away from the window and met the monk’s eyes. Having had time to reflect and
consider, he was now sure his initial conclusions had been right after all. ‘And no one poisoned him, either. I think someone
is playing a prank on you – confessing to a crime that was never committed.’

Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘That is not what you said when this missive first arrived. You were as stunned and distressed
as I was. Now you say you do not believe it?’

‘Yes – because logic dictates that it would not have been possible to poison Kenyngham.’

‘But you said yourself that he was alone for part of Saturday night and early Sunday, because he insisted on keeping the Easter
vigil. Someone could have given him something then.’

‘And that is
exactly
why harming him would have been
impossible. First, it
was
a vigil, and so a time of fasting – and you know how seriously Kenyngham took acts of penitence. And secondly, he would not
have accepted victuals from strangers, anyway.’